The Robert E Heinlein Memorial Pantsuit

The best limit resides in paltry means near the directed tone of our next infusion, nuclear mod squad style. We're weird in our urgent dictated mess, with fresh elastic uniform and congenital fiction. Indeed, politics invented a city in which all tone smooths into relief. We are paying customers with whelks in our dreams. Look to the sky, the new version, and see planetary hope. We lift off from our stage of exhaust, dreaming an exaggerated series of phony claims. Such a rush and giving up! Star children, please, rush to your beds! This time of arrival places news in our reader. The hope of George Bush—flatfooted, redhanded—becomes so much flattening. Our Iraq, dear, and choices for the future, supply a mark for each last remnant called citizen. Look how the process resists infraction. Mutterings deserve reaction, and what do you say? We have the vice president to do that work. We have the state of the union to do that work. We have the crowing to do that work. Look at the walls circling Harvard, seemingly pervious but seemingly not. The secret committee of bald action encompasses many parsecs of just plain universe. The flat action of incoming aliens—they beep while we dream—tricks us into certitude. Now we have answers, and a good place next to the sun. When the sun leaves, we'll tag along. For now, just crush all youthful hope with machination and resolve. State clearly your function, provide need for proctor, topple at will. These limits that we choose can be forever, and our rayguns will return each spring.